


Sacred Flames

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dragon sex, Dragon!Brighid, F/F, I have no regrets, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Letting loose is the most dangerous part.





	Sacred Flames

**Author's Note:**

> the smutty spinoff to [For Her Flames](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14318973) that Woofemus never asked for lol
> 
> also the title is misleading; morag does not get set on fire here :(

The wilds of Gormott can be as unforgiving as they are tranquil. Creatures that could easily take down grown men lurk around every corner the further they venture away from civilization, through paths that hadn’t felt the touch of human feet in ages.

Mòrag had thought she would need to fend off these creatures to defend both herself and her companion, but Brighid’s mere presence seems to deter any beast from coming near them.

After that unsightly display in the city, she can’t help but feel vaguely disappointed that she hasn’t had a proper chance to display her skills to Brighid. The need to prove her capabilities is an urge not easily shaken for someone like Mòrag.

So, all is quiet when they stop to camp near a quiet little river stream. She supposes she can’t complain about the peace.

“I’m going to get water,” Brighid says, standing up. Mòrag is watching over some pieces of meat roasting over a blue campfire. It takes all her self-control to stop herself from jumping up to her feet and declaring she’d accompany Brighid– they’re _equals_ , and Brighid had clearly expressed her annoyances at being treated like a brittle piece of glass plenty of times before.

But they’re not really equals. Brighid is the Flamebringer, and Mòrag is a mere human.

“If you need me—“

“Mmh,” Brighid lazily waves a hand as she walks away.

Mòrag takes a deep breath and stares into the flames. No matter how many times she sees them, she’ll never tire of the brilliant azure. The meat slowly cooks to completion and Mòrag eats her fill, leaving some aside for Brighid, and waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

The air is beginning to cool as the afternoon stretches towards the evening.

“… My la— Brighid?” Mòrag calls out.

Nothing.

“Brighid?!”

Hunters. Bandits. Monsters. Other things. Nothing the Flamebringer can’t handle, but all the same— Mòrag hastily kicks dirt over the fire, grabs the swords, and sprints off into the brush where Brighid had gone. She was just supposed to get water. What could have gone wrong? Damn it all, and herself, she should have gone along with her because she _knew_ something like this could happen and yet—

She spots Brighid past the end of the line of trees, kneeling in the water _._

Rather ungracefully, Mòrag trips and falls right out into the bank, twisting at the last second to avoid landing on her previously wounded arm.

Instead, she lands on her other shoulder. It hurts. The noise draws Brighid’s attention but she looks entirely unsurprised and unbothered at being seen; on the contrary, she straightens up with a pleased smile, and now Mòrag can see her clothes and cloak neatly folded next to the water. She's... oh.

“B-Brighid— my apologies, I didn’t mean to intrude—” Mòrag hastily rolls over and covers her face. She saw… too much. Far too much. Oh, Architect.

“Are you alright? That fall looked painful.”

“I’m fine!” she says too loudly, still covering her face. “What are you doing…?”

“Bathing,” Brighid says. “The water is pleasant, so I thought I would take the opportunity to clean myself.”

“You could not have told me first?!”

“I didn’t see any need to.”

Okay, Brighid is most definitely teasing her. Maybe this is what Mòrag deserves for constantly fretting over her. Or maybe she’s just being cruel. Either way, Mòrag can’t find it in herself to really be angry. If anything, she’s just… embarrassed, for a myriad of reasons.

The main reason being Brighid’s very unclothed state.

“Why don’t you come join me, Mòrag? Perhaps a bath would refresh your mind from your troubles.”

A strange noise almost escapes from Mòrag’s throat. Her ears are burning up. Still on the ground, she risks a peek between her fingers aaaaand Brighid is standing over her. When did she even get over here? Her lungs feel like stones.

Water drips down on Mòrag’s face. She swears the drops would sizzle.

“That— that would hardly be appropriate for me to—”

Brighid _laughs._ The noise is far prettier than the expensive songbirds nobles keep in cages. “Do you recall what I said before, the other day?”

“We… go together…”

“Yes. So, would you at least clean my back for me?”

What choice does she have? Mòrag sits up and dumbly nods, and Brighid makes her way back into the water. The stream isn’t deep— it only comes up to her waist. The ends of Brighid’s hair float around her, like the spreading petals of a flower.

With shaking hands, Mòrag removes her boots and places them beside Brighid’s clothes. Even more reluctantly, she sets the swords down, careful to leave them where she can keep an eye on them, then finally wades in after Brighid. Soft sand and fine pebbles tickle the soles of her feet.

“Your clothes,” Brighid says, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t mind,” Mòrag quickly says. She does mind, actually, but she can’t fathom the idea of… stripping… before the Flamebringer, supposed equals or not. Brighid just hums in thought and turns, brushing her hair aside to expose her back to Mòrag.

… This can’t be appropriate. It’s far from appropriate. But Brighid is waiting expectantly and Mòrag is already standing here, her clothes soaking through and leaving her shivering, and _no stop staring at the nape of her neck, don’t let your eyes wander too low either, have some discipline._

She scoops some water in her palm and drizzles it down Brighid’s back. The droplets run down the sharp angles of her shoulderblades and down the curve of her spine, and Mòrag swears her heart is going to burst if it goes any faster than this.

“… You _are_ allowed to touch me, you realize.”

Mòrag may be loyal and polite to a fault, but even she’s not quite dense enough to miss that blatant signal. Oh. _Oh._ Ohhhhhh, wow, alright.

Her body refuses to move. She’s stuck staring at the nape of Brighid’s neck. Sensing that Mòrag’s nerves have finally gotten the better of her, Brighid turns around with a slight frown and steps close, pleased when Mòrag doesn’t move away.

If only she could see the look on her own face.

“Perhaps you hit your head when you tripped?”

No response. Mòrag’s eyes flit down, then back up, and she raises her hands to cover her face but Brighid is taking ahold of her wrists.

“Come now, where did all your fine articulate words go? Mòrag…” Brighid steps up even closer until her breasts push against Mòrag. “I may be a dragon, but I am still a woman as well.”

She’s… soft. So soft. Mòrag’s repressed wants and desires scream at her to just take Brighid in her arms and kiss her and give her everything she’s been hinting at wanting, but the prominent parts of her thoughts remind her that this is…

What was it, again? Ah— improper, right. It’s improper.

But Brighid is tilting her head down to press her lips against her neck and that word— what was it?— keeps slipping from her. Brighid’s still holding onto her wrists as well, and Mòrag feels far too weak to try and free herself.

Not that she would want to. She doesn’t want to. She means, she _wants_ … Brighid. And Brighid clearly wants her. What is even happening anymore.

“A-Are you sure?” Mòrag chokes out.

In response, Brighid only lets go of Mòrag so that she can slide her hands up her shirt to touch and lightly claw at her, still kissing her neck. That answers that, then. At last Mòrag wraps her arms around Brighid, burying her nose into her hair, savoring her smoky scent.

She still can’t shake off the feeling that she’s doing something terribly wrong, but then Brighid’s hands are moving lower and Mòrag is able to momentarily forget.

If only she could forget everything else and focus only on this moment. Make it endless. Give in. Let herself loose from her duties, if just temporarily.

One of Brighid’s hands finds its way between her legs. She touches Mòrag and she jolts— but the sensation is muted, the fabric of her pants too thick and heavy with water. The gentle flow of the stream suddenly feels like a raging current wrapping around them, and she fears she may fall over with how weak her knees had gone.

“My lady—“

Her fangs sink into Morag’s shoulder. A reminder. Mòrag winces.

“… Brighid…”

“Shall we take this to dry land now?”

Mòrag tries not to look too eager when she nods. She lets Brighid lead her back to the bank and sheds her wet clothes as quickly as she can (with some struggling, as they cling to her wet skin), too self-conscious beneath Brighid’s hungry gaze.

Once she’s properly freed from the restraints of her clothing Brighid pounces at her, knocking them both down onto the warm grass. Mòrag grunts as she lands on her back, startled by the abrupt display of aggressiveness. When her vision settles, she finds that her hands had automatically come to grip Brighid’s hips— she’s straddling Mòrag’s lap, her eyes narrow slits and her tongue darting out between sharp teeth.

“A lovely view,” Brighid murmurs. She allows Mòrag to sit up, adjusting herself to a more comfortable position, and presses herself flush against her for a kiss— Mòrag nearly falls back again.

This whole thing, _intimate skin contact_ , their breaths hot, Mòrag’s inexperienced movements, the taste of Brighid making her forget that word yet again, it’s… yes, she had forgotten that word. It doesn’t matter anymore. She can only think of one thing, Brighid, _Brighid_ , reverently stroking her skin and tasting her affections, feeling her claws dragging up her back, her own fingers running through her wet hair, the two of them tangling themselves together with such exhilaration that Mòrag finally shakes loose the shackles of her hesitance.

Her hands move up between their bodies, to shamelessly grope at Brighid's breasts. She can feel Brighid smiling against their heated kiss.

Without the barrier of her clothes, Brighid is free to reach down and touch Mòrag as well. Predictably enough, she almost breaks the kiss off to gasp but Brighid won’t allow it, firmly keeping Morag’s mouth trapped against her own. She wants to feel and hear and taste every little moan and whimper that comes from Mòrag as she strokes her, cautious not to let her claws scratch.

“W-Wait,” Mòrag breathes. Her eyes are hazy but focused enough when Brighid pulls back with a huff, mildly annoyed at being interrupted.

“Yes?”

“I can’t— I mean, I should be the one to— you, you deserve it more than I—“ Mòrag steadies herself, then tries again. “… I’ll do anything you ask of me. Please, let me pleasure _you._ ”

“Are you truly up to the task?”

Mòrag hesitates, then buries her face against those magnificently soft breasts, inhaling deeply. “ _Yes._ ”

She makes a small noise of protest when Brighid detaches herself from Mòrag, standing up. Mòrag moves onto her knees and hands, bending down to kiss at her clawed feet without any semblance of hesitation, waiting for a hum of approval before moving up to leave more kisses up Brighid’s leg.

Brighid watches on, looking down at her. Who’s meant to serve who here, exactly? Mòrag has been exceedingly subservient in the admittedly brief time they’ve known each other. She had just finally gotten Mòrag to address her by name and— here she is, on her knees and worshipping Brighid’s legs and feet as though she's a divine being.

It’s… a pleasure, being doted upon like this, but Mòrag still hasn’t fully realized what it means to be equals, apparently. Brighid is no divine being. She's just a dragon.

“Lie on your back,” she says. Just as she expected, Mòrag does as she’s told without question. Her cheeks are flushed and her breathing is quickened with arousal, and she props herself up on her elbows, eagerly waiting to see what Brighid would do next. Step on her, perhaps?

She doesn’t. Brighid is sifting through their clothes (her own neatly folded and dried, Mòrag’s a wet and messy pile) and before Mòrag can ask, she sees the glow in her hand— her eyes widen. Brighid casts a large shadow over her, wings unfurling and stretching out.

“B-Brighid?”

“You said you would do anything I ask of you, did you not?” Brighid’s voice rumbles as she stands over Mòrag. “Then you will allow me to do this for you.”

It’s hard not to feel completely overwhelmed and a little terrified. Maybe very terrified. Maybe just a bit. She’s completely naked, her swords are out of reach, and there’s a dragon standing above her. But Mòrag still aches with the absence of Brighid’s touch and… she’s beautiful, still, even in this form. Her flames warm her bare skin, even at this distance.

Then Brighid is lowering herself and the heat becomes even more intense. Her head, nearly as long as Mòrag’s entire height, comes to lightly rest upon her. Brighid huffs through her nostrils; the hot air hits Mòrag right in the face and her arms remain on the ground at her sides, unsure what to do.

“Are you frightened, Mòrag?”

Yes. No. Sort of. It’s complicated. But she knows she doesn’t want Brighid to move away so she lifts one hand, the one that still carries vestiges of pain from the other day, and carefully strokes the scales upon Brighid’s muzzle. They’re warm and smooth. That’s the most she could say about them.

“I… always keep my word,” Mòrag breathlessly says, leaning forward to brush her lips against Brighid. “Please— Brighid.”

That’s good enough. Brighid’s head slides back and she gently pushes her snout between Mòrag’s thighs. In turn, Mòrag quickly complies and spreads her legs as far as they’d go without discomfort, giving Brighid plentiful space to comfortably fit her head.

Her arms are shaking. She lies back down, staring up at the clear sky and biting her lip as Brighid exhales, moist breath blowing across her. She startles when she feels smooth claws slide beneath her upper body— Brighid is holding her, supporting her in her hands, and Mòrag has never felt so small.

Something unbelievably _hot_ slides across her thigh, and Mòrag whimpers out loud with the realization that it’s Brighid’s tongue. She still can’t see. Her head lolls back onto one of the claws beneath her but she can feel Brighid’s frontal fangs grazing across her stomach and back, then her tongue— her _tongue_ , scorching hot and slick, licking her all around her lower body, between her legs and across her ass and around her thighs.

Her hands come to shakily grip Brighid’s claws. The sensation is odd but far from unwelcome. Mòrag squeezes her eyes shut, her instincts still telling her to be afraid (she’s practically between Brighid’s teeth, after all, and all it would take is one strong twitch of the muscles in her jaws to bite a chunk out of Mòrag) but it feels… good.

She spreads her legs just a little further apart. Taking that cue, Brighid’s tongue pushes up against her soaked arousal and Mòrag’s gasping becomes a low moan. Brighid’s grip on her body tightens ever so slightly.

“Brighid…”

She needs to hear Mòrag calling her name again. _Just like that._ Her tongue is far larger than it is in her human form and not meant for delicate precision, but she can feel and taste well enough to carefully arrange her tongue so that the tapered end pushes up exactly where it needs to be. The lashing movements cause Mòrag to moan again and writhe, nearly kicking the sides of Brighid’s face and her knees knocking against her muzzle, so she repeats the movements until Mòrag is completely drenched with both arousal and saliva.

She can _feel_ Mòrag’s entrance with the tip of her tongue, though it’s small in comparison. She adjusts her hands so that Mòrag is sitting halfway upright. Mòrag reaches out to stroke Brighid’s snout with trembling hands, her half-lidded eyes pleading for her to go further. Go further. _Please_.

Brighid exhales, her hot breath washing over Mòrag.

A loud cry shakes the very air around them. Mòrag clutches at Brighid’s claws, then at the grass, then her fingers scrabble at her scales, as Brighid attempts to slowly ease her tongue inside her. It’s thick— too thick? Mòrag’s cries take a pained turn but she tries shifting her hips, pushing herself at Brighid’s tongue, still too eager to please and too stubborn to stop.

It… hurts, mostly, but the pain is far different from the kind when she’s struck by a blade or bleeds from a wound or suffers a violent blow from an enemy. She can’t imagine this pain ending, she doesn’t _want_ to, and Mòrag realizes she may be discovering something about herself she probably would have been better off never knowing about.

Brighid is trying to get more leverage; she’s biting down on Mòrag. Not hard enough to break through skin, but enough that her fangs would leave marks, and enough that she can firmly hold Mòrag in place as that thick muscle continues to try worming its way into Mòrag.

Mòrag isn’t even bothering with trying to conceal her noises anymore. She freely whimpers and cries out, every attempt to thrust her hips met with painful resistance against Brighid’s sharp teeth. The very tip of the dragon’s tongue is already in her, stretching her and squirming and bringing blinding white flashes of pleasure across Mòrag’s vision, but it’s not enough.

She never was the greedy type, but.

“B-Brighid, _please—_ ” she sobs, everything too hot and not hot enough. “Please, I’ll do anything— Brighid, _Brighid—_ ”

Brighid opens her eyes, unable to contain herself any longer. Her tail lashes in tandem with her tongue as she vigorously licks out Mòrag, her screams of pleasure even driving a flock of small birds from nearby trees, that burning tongue still squirming partway inside her. _Call my name, again._ But all she can do is growl and work her tongue. Mòrag is moving too much. She's in danger of impaling or slashing herself upon Brighid's teeth, and Brighid is cautious to adjust her grip accordingly to avoid drawing blood.

She makes the most pitiful noise when Brighid slightly draws her tongue back, but the whine becomes an exhilarated sob when it pushes into her again. Again and again Brighid works at her with her tongue until she can feel Mòrag spasming in her hands and in her jaws, climaxing hard.

_"Brighid—!"_

Something else stirs within the dragon, when she hears her name screamed so. She lowers Mòrag to the ground and pulls back to look down at her, hungry eyes sweeping across her exhausted, shivering form. The bite marks along her lower abdomen will become bruises, and everything else… everything else is a wet, sticky mess. Mòrag looks up at her with a weak smile.

She isn’t sure what happens next. One moment she’s admiring Mòrag’s vulnerability, then the next she’s _holding_ her again, but this time she has her on her face and knees, ass up in the air, one of her claws dragging up the dip of her curved back. Brighid’s entire body is suspended over her, spine arched and hind legs slightly bent, as if determined to mount the woman beneath her in spite of their difference in size— her eyes widen and she blinks hard. Mòrag isn’t even struggling. What?

This time, Brighid is the one who breathes hard. The taste of Mòrag is still fresh in her mouth. Mòrag needed more— she needs more, they could… no, no.

“Are… you alright?” Brighid hesitantly asks, moving off of her. Mòrag doesn't even seem to be aware of how close Brighid had been to losing control.

Still, Mòrag doesn’t move, though she tiredly looks over her shoulder. “If you want more…”

Her thighs are absolutely _dripping._ The sight is too tempting; Brighid’s tongue runs over her teeth and lips. It would be far too easy to…

“You’re utterly spent. This is enough.” Focus. Focus. Focus. There— she returns to her humanized form, and for a split second, she isn’t sure how to adjust to this soft form once again.

Mòrag groans and falls onto her side, panting. Almost immediately, Brighid is crouching beside her, cupping her face in her hands and peering into her tired eyes, just to make sure she’s still conscious. Of course she is. She’s _fine_ , in spite of appearances. A heavy feeling of relief washes over Brighid as Mòrag sits up, although she falls forward against her.

“… My apologies. I may have gotten carried away.”

“Why would you apologize?” Oh, Mòrag. Even now, she would still place her own safety beneath Brighid’s comfort and pleasure. “If you had wanted to continue on, I could have surely handled it.”

Or she’s just so full of herself that she believes she could last more than one round with a _dragon._ Brighid softly laughs and hugs her, savoring their closeness. At last, they’re on equal ground. For the most part.

The sky is beginning to turn to a dusky orange. She helps Mòrag up to her feet and supports her weight, noting the way her legs wobble unsteadily.

“Come, let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, leading Mòrag back into the water. “And then we’ll have dinner.”

“Brighid…” Mòrag’s brows are furrowed together. This time, her hesitance is short lived; she leans in to nuzzle and kiss Brighid, one last brazen display of affection before she remembers the meaning of discipline and proper conduct. They’re human and dragon. It isn’t meant to be like this.

But the things not meant to be and the things meant to be don’t even seem to matter anymore, just in the moment. Brighid nuzzles her back as they step into the water, the slow current washing the mess upon Mòrag’s skin away.


End file.
